


Merry Christmas, Asshole

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas at the bunker, where there is absolutely no mistletoe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Christmas, Asshole

It snuck up on him.

The lights that looked a little too similar to fairies for Dean’s comfort, strung – most likely by Sam - around the bunker didn’t set off any alarms.

The disgrace of a tree, shedding fake pine needles all over the carpet and so short that even Kevin could put the star on top, didn’t give him a clue. They had dug out a porcelain angel, ferreted away from some crawlspace, but Dean had seen the way Castiel had paled at the sight and decided to put it back. 

And someone’s (most likely Sam) horrible idea of doing a secret Santa. There are four shreds of paper, folded and placed into an empty bottle of beer. Dean had gone last, and it takes him four minutes and a pair of chopsticks to get that last little piece out of the neck, stained brown and reeking of alcohol.

Someone really must be watching over him, he decides, and whoever it is must have a sick sense of humor.

He has gotten Castiel.

***

On Christmas Eve, the four of them are drinking eggnog and playing twister, with Kevin manning the wheel and Sam stretched out across the entire mat. After Sam topples over and Castiel’s muscles begin to shake, Dean figures he has that round in the bag.

And then Charlie decides to blast open a portal from Oz and come barreling back into their lives, leaving Dean to let out a very manly squeal and flip over in a fashion that shakes the entire room. He ends up managing to hook his legs around Castiel’s and take them both down.

“Hey there, little sis,” Dean says, casually untangling his limbs and standing to give the beaming redhead a tight hug. She’s wearing a festive green sweater almost ripped to shreds, looking a little like a Christmas elf from hell. “I was worried I wouldn’t get a chance to see you.” He doesn’t realize the implication of his words.

Charlie brushes them off.

“Well, you always say it’s best to spend the holidays with family.”

She breezes by him, giving a fist bump to Sam before disappearing behind large arms and a pool of flannel.

After that, Dean ends up using the arrival of his favorite geek as an excuse to put in _Star Wars_ , and the five of them end up squishing themselves onto a single couch.

Dean chooses not to complain that Castiel is almost sitting in his lap.

Halfway through Episode IV, Dean passes out between the din of light sabers slashing against each other and Charlie yelling insults aimed towards the character on screen.

When he wakes up, groggy and disoriented with sleep-studded eyes, the screen is blank and something is tickling his shoulder. 

He looks up at Castiel, but the man’s eyes are locked on the soft material of his shirt. For a moment, Dean figures the fallen angel has x-ray vision and can see the scarred flesh that lies beneath, the handprint forever burned into his soul.

“Whatchya doing' there, Cas?” he asks and as the hand is yanked away, he realizes that he was awoken by a ticklish sensation from the man’s touch that he dearly misses.

“I was merely wondering if there was still a connection…” Cas says, his gaze rising to meet Dean’s, “…after I fell.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, as if trying to read lines of text that never existed.

He shrugs out of his flannel shirt, tossing it over the back of the couch before rolling up his sleeve and exposing his bare shoulder.

“Well, only one way to find out,” Dean says.

Castiel is frozen.

“Come on, now,” Dean urges, waggling his arm. “Don’t be shy.”

But Castiel is afraid.

The mark is there, seared into Dean’s flesh for al eternity, but Cas is terrified that his hand will no longer fit, and that Dean will break away.

All illusions are shattered when, in the darkened sitting room with the pale glow emanating from the terrifying string wrapped around the midget tree and the blinking red light of the television, Dean takes Castiel’s left hand in his own and guides it to the scar, pressing down with the same amount of pressure he used for Sam’s sigil-shaped cookie cutters that he must’ve found at some wacked-out second hand shop that they should really investigate.

Dean feels as though he’s chained to a comet, and it's bursting through his chest.

“See?” he asks, removing his hand and grinning as Castiel’s stays in place. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel is looking at him with tired eyes, eyes that could not possibly belong to someone born human, and Dean realizes that it had really snuck up on him.

Dean doesn’t know what he’s doing. Actually, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s fucking stoked that he finally has the balls to do it.

He leans over and kisses Castiel, heavy and heated and desperate.

He will blame some combination of too much eggnog and sleepy time sadness and an unhealthy dose of Christmas cheer for his actions.

But the world is all right, because Castiel’s hand is cupping his face and gripping him tighter and he is kissing him back.

Dean pushes everything he can into the kiss; all those sleepless nights where Dean stayed up with a glass of scotch in one hand and a head full of worries, all the unanswered prayers that left Dean hating himself more and more for caring so much about an asshole in a long coat, and all the nightmares plaguing him where Castiel is beaten, Castiel is bloody, Castiel is torn limb from limb that leave Dean shaking and sweating and with the urge to vomit his two-dollar dinner.

Everything comes to a screeching halt, and Dean pulls back the moment he realizes he’s kissing motionless lips.

“There’s no mistletoe,” Castiel deadpans, his eyes rising to the empty ceiling.

Dean cackles, linking his fingers behind Castiel’s waist. “Charlie’s probably hoarding it to use on Dorothy.”

“Then I shall purchase her some for the holiday.”

Dean presses his lips to Castiel’s collarbone because he just can’t stand not to, and he traces Castiel’s grin with his thumb.

It’s not until the old and ridiculously ornate grandfather clock strikes two and he’s lying in bed, his ear pressed against bare skin as he listens to the steady thumping of Castiel’s heart, does he realize that he forgot to buy his best friend a Christmas gift.

***

Dean has unwrapped his gift from Kevin (a power bar and a Swiss army knife equipped with a silver blade and a chute for holy water), and he is prepared to face his shame.

He nudges his socked foot against Castiel’s and is seconds away from offering his copy of Busty Asian Beauties as a gift when Sam swoops in and saves his ass.

The man in a floppy Santa hat and the grin of a small child who dares call himself a Winchester reaches around the tree and pulls out a slim square. It is wrapped in bright red paper printed with dancing llamas, topped with a shiny green bow.

“I knew my idiot of a brother would forget,” Sam says, shrugging and passing it to Castiel.

Dean flings an arm around Castiel's shoulder and he resists the urge to flip off his dear brother.

“It’ is okay, Dean,” Castiel assures, squeezing his hand before unwrapping the gift. “Many of the original visitors failed to bring gifts to the birth of Christ.”

In a flash, the wrapping paper is discarded onto the floor, and Castiel is staring bemusedly at a shiny silver disk in a clear casing.

Dean flushes red.

“Are you seriously giving my boyfriend porn for Christmas?” he demands.

“No, dude, ew. It involves clothes and no exchange of bodily fluid, I promise. Just go watch it.”

***

Dean is sitting in his room with the door shut – just in case Sam’s lying – with a fallen angel perching on his lap. His laptop is facing both of them.

The screen whirrs to life, and the darkness is replaces by a cloudy image of Dean in his room, strumming a cheap guitar that he’d found hiding in his closet.

The real Dean lets out a groan as the television Dean hums a few notes, his fingers gliding over the silver strings.

“As fantastic as I look rocking out, you are _not_ watching this _._ ” He moves to slam the lid of the laptop, but Castiel blocks the motion.

“But Dean, this is my Christmas present.”

Dean mumbles something noncommittal under his breathe and wraps his arms around Cas as the television Dean begins a terrible rendering of “Thank You” by Led Zeppelin.

He winces, remembering how it had seemed a good idea at the time to freshen up on his guitar skills, and he buries his head in the back of Castiel's neck.

Three garish love songs later, and Dean figures if he gets any more embarrassed his fingers will fall off from the ghost of shame and just save him the trouble of ever embarrassing himself by playing the guitar again.

However, one look at the expression of childlike joy on Castiel’s face, and Dean thinks he may be able to live with it.

His bladder feels as though it is about to burst.

“I’ll be right back, babe,” he says, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s temple and shifting out from under him.

In the hall, he corners the devil himself - Sam Winchester.

“How did you even get that footage?” Dean demands, careful to keep his voice low.

“You don’t want to know.” Dean turns a bright red.

“How many songs are there?”

“Oh…about twenty.” Dean’s suddenly swallowing cotton.

“Merry Christmas, asshole,” he says, punching his brother in the shoulder and returning to Castiel.

“Merry Christmas – ow. Fuck you, Dean.”


End file.
